


Five Mornings

by omphale23



Category: due South
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many, many thanks to <a href="http://zabira.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://zabira.livejournal.com/"><b>zabira</b></a> for a wonderful, super speedy beta job.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Five Mornings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slidellra (sli)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sli/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to [](http://zabira.livejournal.com/profile)[**zabira**](http://zabira.livejournal.com/) for a wonderful, super speedy beta job.

1.

Ray woke up hungover. Eddie, his best friend since the seventh grade and usually the kind of guy who could be relied on to keep another guy out of trouble, was snoring on the floor next to the bed. Some best man he turned out to be. If what Ray remembered was right, it had been Eddie who bought the first round of vodka last night, claiming that it was tradition that the groom get plastered the night before the wedding.

Ray closed his eyes again for a minute. Tradition was really fucking stupid. Thanks to Eddie, he was having a hard time thinking of his middle name, let alone his vows.

Ray kicked Eddie as he stumbled to the bathroom, kicked him again when he realized that they were late already. Not even ten in the morning and he was behind on Stella's neatly typed schedule.

She knew him, though, and Ray was counting on there being some extra hangover time built in. Sure enough, he read down a few lines and found a note, penciled in on the edge next to _find dress shoes and knot tie_ that read _don't worry, I'll let them know you're running behind_.

It was good that one of them knew how to plan.

 

2.

He blinked his eyes open, squinting in the yellow light that meant it was way too early in the morning, too early for the streetlights to be off or the neighbors to start slamming doors as they left for work. So early that it was still the night before. He swore, rolled over, and that was a bad idea as his stomach flipped and the room spun and Ray closed his eyes again, willing everything to settle back into normal.

The second time he opened his eyes, the room held still but his head protested with a throbbing that felt like he'd taken a frying pan to the skull. Ray slid off the couch, kicked aside an empty, and stumble-crawled to the bathroom for a handful of aspirin and some water sucked out of the faucet.

The third time, he kept his head pressed to the tiles and stared at the world tilted sideways, dust on the floor of his bathroom and a scattering of dirty clothes shoved behind the door. His alarm was beeping quietly in the bedroom, it was Tuesday afternoon, and he wasn't married anymore.

 

3.

Ray didn't set an alarm his first day at the 27th. He didn't need one, couldn't sleep the night before he started a new cover. He stayed up reading the background on Vecchio one more time, hands twitching on his thighs as he ran down the lists of names, the cases, the informers and bad guys and good guys.

It all made sense, as much as putting him in for a balding Italian clotheshorse could, except for one thing. He couldn't figure out where the Canadian fit.

He had the files, all the case stuff and the notes Vecchio wrote out before the Feds shuffled him off to Arizona or Boise or wherever. He'd talked to Welsh, who seemed to think that the Mountie was being punished for something (and that made no sense, because from the looks of it Vecchio thought the sun rose and set with the guy, and he should know). But Ray couldn't get a handle on it—from the looks of everything, Benton Fraser should be long gone, back to the frozen North, never to return to the mean streets of Chi-town.

What in the hell was he doing pushing paper for Thatcher—who had that frozen beauty that used to signify Lauren Bacall and lately meant somebody much closer to home—when he obviously wanted to be out playing in the snow and chasing down rowdy Eskimos?

It made no sense at all. Ray spent a couple of hours thinking about it, and the best he could come up with was that he should ask.

Then he saw Fraser, actually met him and looked at his face and he couldn't do it. Deep down, Ray was pretty sure that if he asked Fraser why he was still around, he'd get up and leave. And that? That right there was the sort of thing that Ray needed to prevent.

So he kept his mouth shut. Well, he tried. Every once and a while Fraser would catch him watching, get this little twist to his mouth that looked like it meant he knew what Ray wanted to ask. But Ray didn't bring it up, and Fraser didn't either, and as long as no one asked, nobody had to admit that there was something new keeping Fraser in town. Something that replaced what he had with Vecchio.

Which Ray also didn't ask about.

 

4.

Ray dug a little deeper into the pillow when he felt cold air slide across his shoulders. He flung his arm back, smacking around for the quilt and his blankets for a moment before his wrist was caught and pressed back to the bed.

He kept his eyes closed as warm lips ghosted down his back, kissing at the bones of his spine, drifting over to trace his shoulder blade before a familiar tongue slipped across the tattoo on the back of his hip. Ray shifted, hitched his ass higher as Fraser's hands pulled at him, spreading his thighs and probing lower.

Ray hissed, clenched his hands as Fraser licked at him, shivers running over his skin. He shifted restlessly, following Fraser's tongue back until Fraser planted his hand in the middle of Ray's back, holding him still. Holding him in place.

 

5.

He woke slowly, tensing at the feel of legs tangled up with his. Someone was snoring softly behind him, and Ray closed his eyes again, willing away the belief that it was Fraser there, limbs heavy with sleep. Fraser was miles away, in a whole different country, doing whatever he did these days on a Saturday morning.

He was probably polishing his boots. Or pressing his hat.

Ray flinched at the thought, pushed it away as he slipped out of bed and reached around for his jeans. He fished them out from under the bed, dragging the crumpled denim up his legs and zipping them as he stumbled out of the bedroom.

Vecchio didn't stir, just turned his face away and kept snoring. Ray closed the door behind him and rubbed his eyes as he yawned and headed for the kitchen.

He dug out the coffee, ignoring Vecchio's fancy whole beans in favor of instant. It was too early for the grinder—when he used it before work, the unholy racket was guaranteed to wake the landlady and she'd pound on the ceiling, which would wake Vecchio.

Then Vecchio would bitch about being up early on his day off, and Ray would have to yell back and stomp off, and that was probably more trouble than it was worth. Ray stretched his arms over his head and cracked his back as he thought about his other options. He drank a couple of cups of instant, choking them down black, and then went to brush his teeth and wake up a little more.

By the time he felt vaguely human, the sun was up and he could hear Vecchio starting to shift around, almost awake but trying for a few more minutes of shuteye. Ray slipped back into the bedroom, dropped his jeans in the hamper, and crawled back into bed. Vecchio blinked his eyes and Ray slid over him, pinning Vecchio's shoulders with his hands and leaning in for a kiss.

Vecchio moaned a little, and Ray took advantage of being more awake to wrap Vecchio's hands around the headboard and shift toward the foot of the bed, sliding his fingers down Vecchio's chest and over the planes of his hips, stopping to breathe a hello to Vecchio's dick before he slid his mouth over the head. Ray sucked, bracing himself as Vecchio arched upward, groaning his name.


End file.
